Had it still been 1964, I could have travelled today to Maldon by train, but thanks to the evil Doctor Beeching this is no longer possible, and instead I have made the near twenty-six kilometre journey from my home to that of Maldon & Tiptree Football Club in my trusty, red Citroen C3.  On the bright side however, it has saved me a two and quarter kilometre walk from what was the railway station on a grey, deeply overcast, drizzly and at times outright-wet day. Thanks ‘Beechie’, even if in the long term it is another small contribution to global warming, a rise in sea level that will see Maldon & Tiptree’s football ground consumed by the salty waters of the North Sea and our eventual doom.  Of course, had it still been 1964 I might have preferred not to walk from Maldon East Station, but instead drive my red, Tri-ang ‘Thunderbolt’ pedal car.

Despite the gloomy weather it’s a pleasant enough journey through the Essex countryside to Maldon, over the muddy River Chelmer, up steep Market Hill and along the historic High Street and down to Park Drive where Maldon & Tiptree football club is to be found.  Amusingly, to my addled mind at least, Park Drive shares its name with a now defunct brand of unfiltered and therefore super-carcinogenic cigarette, last popular in the 1950s.  I wonder if anyone who smoked them survives.  As I drive, I listen to BBC Radio Essex, and a jolly man makes football sound very important as he takes me through this afternoon’s fixtures for Essex’s top football teams.  Matt Bloomfield the Colchester United manager gives a very prickly interview and the jolly man mis-pronounces Chelmsford City as Chelmsford Shitty; there will be complaints about that, probably in the Daily Mail as it twists the knife in its campaign against an organisation free of the influence of commercial advertisers.  At about half past two I see a forest of floodlights up ahead of me and cars parked at rakish angles on grass verges and I know I have arrived.  Finding a spare bit of grass verge of my own because the car park seems full, I park up and head for the turnstiles joining a queue of mature gentlemen. 

“One adult and a programme?” enquires the friendly woman on the other side of the turnstile as I tender a ten-pound and a five-pound note, (£10 entry and £2 for the programme); she puts the emphasis on the word ‘adult’ clearly checking that I’m not really a pensioner. “You’re just too polite to ask” I tell her, and she smiles and gives an unnecessary explanation.  I must look older than I think.  Inside the ground the players are on the pitch warming up, some people have already taken up their places in the three small, seated stands.  I take a look at the clubhouse and bar, but a look is all it is as there is no real ale being served and I’m rarely in the mood for anything chilled and gassy.  Back outside I take a walk around the ground, it’s not raining but it’s still very grey and a light wind swirls cloud towards the town.  I head for the largest of the three stands, a box like structure opposite the club house; it bears the name “The Lifestyle Stand”, I wonder to myself what sort of lifestyle would you name a football stand after, perhaps by sitting in the stand I’ll find out.

“Welcome to the home of football” announces the voice from the public address system, sounding like a refugee from local radio. “Who knew?” I think to myself, and the teams emerge from the slightly grim looking mesh tunnel on the far side of the ground before lining up in the familiar way. Maldon & Tiptree are wearing blue and red striped shirts and blue shorts, whilst todays’ opponents, Basildon United inexplicably wear a change kit of green and white striped shirts with green shorts; if I was Spanish, lost and slightly confused, I might think I was watching Barcelona versus Real Betis.  Either way, the colourful kits brighten up a dull afternoon although why Basildon, known as The Bees, I guess because Basildon begins with a letter ‘B’, are not wearing their usual yellow and black kit remains a mystery, unless perhaps it’s still in the wash from last week’s game; with all this rain it must be a bugger to get dry.

“Got to worry when some of the mascots are bigger than the players” says a bloke behind me so that everyone can hear him. “Bigger, or better?” says someone else.  This is what had attracted me to this fixture, not the wit of the supporters, but the fact that Maldon & Tiptree are bottom of the Isthmian League having lost all but one of their league games this season, and that was a goalless draw against the team second from bottom in the league table, Coggeshall Town.  Although currently at the giddy heights of fifteenth in the twenty-team league, Basildon have a record that exactly matches that of Maldon & Tiptree over their last five games with one draw and four defeats.  “I am sure it will be a good game” says Maldon & Tiptree manager Adam Flint in his programme notes.

Basildon get first go with the ball and are kicking towards the end of the ground with no stand, with distant Burnham on Crouch and even more distant Southend beyond; Maldon & Tiptree meanwhile are aiming in the direction of the much more nearby Maldon itself. Within a couple of minutes Maldon & Tiptree win a free kick close to the edge of the Basildon penalty area. “Come on Harv” calls a voice from behind me, and then another.  Maldon & Tiptree’s captain, the dreadlocked Laste Dombaxe, and number eleven Harvey Sayer stand over the ball.  Dombaxe takes a run up, feigning to kick the ball but in fact looking as if he is more likely to trip over it. As a scam to occupy the opposition however, it seems to work, and Sayer simply steps up to curl the ball over the wall of green and white shirted players and into the top right hand corner of the Basildon goal. One-nil to Maldon & Tiptree and the crowd all around me sound joyful if also surprised. “Great stuff Harv;” is the shout now.

Three minutes later and Harvey Sayer wins a free-kick wide on the right after a fairly inept challenge from the Basildon left-back.  Sayer swings the ball in with his left foot, no doubt hoping that someone will get their head or a boot to the ball.  Instead, everyone misses the ball, including the Basildon goalkeeper,  who stands as if nailed to his goal line and the ball curls inside the far post and Maldon and Tiptree lead 2-0. The crowd cheer and laugh in equal measure except for the Basildon supporters who are keeping quiet.

Barely five minutes in and the game is not panning out at all as I or probably anyone else had expected and as a neutral with a penchant for the dismal I have to admit to being slightly disappointed; I was expecting a desperate struggle and instead Maldon and Tiptree have what is already probably going to be an unassailable lead given Basildon’s recent form.  Relief comes in the form of a shot into the side netting of the Basildon goal which results in the net parting company with the stanchion holding it up.  The game is stopped as a man in a day-glo tabard attempts a repair. It looks like he’s fixed it, but the referee immediately dashes our hopes as he reveals what a botched job has been made as he tugs at the net and stanchion falls down once again.  If only he’s left it alone we could probably have carried on safe in the knowledge that the ball was unlikely to bother the net for a third time this afternoon unless we’re very lucky. Eventually the Maldon number five strides over to help and this is when the problem is solved; I guess this is the advantage of semi-professional football teams, there is usually an appropriate tradesman about to fix most problems.

With the game under way again it settles down into a less a goal-laden event. Twenty minutes pass and Basildon fashion their first shot at goal; it goes out for a throw-in to Maldon & Tiptree.  “Lino, ‘elp ‘im” shouts a voice from behind as a perceived foul by a Basildon player is left un-punished.  For their part Maldon & Tiptree don’t need much help, they are dominating possession even if they don’t look too much like scoring a third goal just yet.  “Two-nil to the Maldon boys” chant a knot of seven or eight youths sat, appropriately enough, in the far from snappily named Maldon & Tiptree Youth FC Community Stand.  In the same stand sit a small group of middle-aged Basildon fans, it’s almost as if the Maldon youths are goading them into doing something like spilling their tea, or dropping a glove.

After taking his time with a free-kick Harvey Sayer is unexpectedly booked by referee Mr Hillier who evidently believes Sayer is time-wasting although the game is barely a third of the way through.  As if to prove the referee wrong, fate decrees however that from Sayer’s free kick the ball will fly about the Basildon penalty area for a second or two before being booted into the goal by Lance Akins and Maldon lead 3-0.  I reflect on how few people are called Lance and how it’s actually quite a good name, better I think than either Brad or Benny who also feature on the Maldon team sheet.

As the match meanders on towards half-time Maldon &Tiptree win a third corner of the half which is spectacularly batted away by the leaping blancmange-pink figure of the Basildon goalkeeper George Marsh. “Come on Maldon” chant a rival bunch of slightly younger and more shrill youths at the open end of the ground, and I leave my seat to make my way round to be first in the queue at the tea bar when the half-time whistle is blown. 

Having invested in a plastic cup of Brooke Bond PG Tips (£1.25), I hang about by the Yogi Bear-style picnic tables and look at my programme, which serves not only for today’s match, but also for the game on Tuesday versus Braintree Town in the Essex Senior Cup; two for the price of one, a bargain.  The winning numbers for the prize draw are read out over the PA system.  First prize is a bottle of wine, second a box of Fairfield Farms crisps and third prize a pack of Foster’s lager.  It begins to rain and then the voice of the PA system returns to tells us that no one has yet claimed the pack of Foster’s Lager.  No one seems surprised. 

I take a walk into the club house for a ‘comfort break’ and by the time I return outside the game has re-started.  I walk to the end of the ground where there is no stand and get a different perspective on the game.  The PA announcer comes to life again with news that today’s attendance is two-hundred and fifty-seven.  “Thank you of your incredible support” says the announcer.  “Thank you for your incredible announcement” says a bloke stood near me.   After Maldon & Tiptree win a couple of corners I return to the other end of the ground.   Substitutions have now been made and one of the Basildon substitutees is stood chatting to some spectators. “Your lot make this lot look good, and they’re shit” says a spectator somewhat bluntly.  The player agrees however, and doesn’t seem very impressed with some of his team-mates, which can’t do much for team spirit.

All the floodlights are on now and the pitch has that lovely emerald glow that makes standing outside on a wet, November afternoon much more than just tolerable.   Away behind the Lifestyle stand above the grassy bank it sits at the foot of, there is a silvery light amongst the cloud, probably the dull reflection of what lingering afternoon light remains off the waters of the estuary.  I make my way back to the Lifestyle stand to see out the remainder of the match.  Behind me someone is providing their own match commentary, coaching each of the players in turn. “Keep going”, “Good decision” he calls, as if he’s Zinedine Zidane slumming it for the afternoon.    Across the gangway from me a younger voice says “Haaland’s scored already” and then adds “I’m not watching the game” to confirm, as if he needed to, that he’s more interested in the latest scores from his mobile phone.

On the pitch a decent passing move from Maldon & Tiptree concludes with the ball being swept extravagantly wide of the goal by number nine, the exotically monikered Roman Campbell, whose name sounds much too much like like Roman Candle, but then it is November 5th.  “Build again boys” says Zinedine.  But it’s Basildon who build again and when a cross is launched into the penalty area all sorts of mayhem ensues and someone in a green shirt doesnt quite hurdle a scything leg and Mr Hillier awards a penalty kick.  I assume what I noticed was the offence, but any number of fouls could have been taking place.  The Maldon & Tiptree ‘keeper, Tommy Dixon-Hodge dives to his right, which is where Basildon’s Tim Monsheju has booted the ball, but with such force and accuracy that Tommy has no chance of stopping it.  “Ref, that was poor” shouts someone from behind me as the teams line up to kick off again.  Although no one explains what ‘that’ was, I guess it was the decision to award a penalty.

In the remaining six minutes of normal time Basildon substitute Shane Temple throws a tantrum and is cautioned by Mr Hillier, when it looked to me like a Maldon & Tiptree player had tapped him on the bum as he bent down to position the ball for a free-kick, but I could be wrong.  “Leeds are 3-2” says the bloke who’s not watching the match, “Brighton 3-2 up”. It’s like sitting next to Jeff Stelling.

Four minutes of additional time are to be played and I get up from my seat and begin to edge my way towards the exit.  The Maldon youth are now singing that they want their flag back, which I don’t understand and equally mysteriously an advertisement board reads “Yokogawa co-innovating tomorrow”, and I still have no answers when Mr Hillier blows his whistle for the final time. Although I’m now hastening out of the damp and dark of the evening towards my trusty Citroen, I’m not trying to escape, I just want my tea. It’s been a grand afternoon of non-league football between two well-matched, if imperfect teams and I’ve loved it; I’m also glad I dont have to drive my pedal car back to the railway station.

 As far as I can make out from a somewhat half-hearted, cursory trawl through the interweb, Ipswich and Lincoln have three distinct things in common.  Chronologically, these things are Sir Thomas Wolsey, Jamie Clapham and having football clubs in the current third division.  Sir Tommy, as his mates back in Ipswich probably called him,  was born in Ipswich in 1473 and became bishop of Lincoln in 1514.  Conversely, Jamie Clapham was born in in Lincoln in 1975 and was bishop of Ipswich or perhaps more accurately left-back for Ipswich Town during the late 1990’s and early 2000’s.  Today bears witness to the final commonality, which is that both Ipswich and Lincoln have third division football teams; today the two teams meet at Portman Road in a football league fixture.

Today also happens to be my mother’s ninety-seventh birthday and after a morning spent with her and my sister  in which I gift (to use weird modern parlance) her a bottle of sherry, a box of gin-laced chocolates and a birthday card consisting of an intentionally and unavoidably surreal collage of family photos from the 1960’s and 1970’s, I head for the Arbor House (formerly The Arboretum). Having parked up my trusty Citroen C3 I step out across Gippeswyk Park and Sir Alf Ramsey Way where I manage to avoid being run over by the Lincoln City team bus and buy a programme (£3.50) using coins of the realm, just for old time’s sake.  It had been a light blue, sunny afternoon when I was with my mother, but now a threatening, heavy pall of fashionably deep grey cloud much the same colour as the Lincoln City team bus hangs over the town and I carry a small umbrella as insurance against a heavy shower. Arriving at the Arboretum, I find Mick already at the bar; like the decent man that he is, Mick buys two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (one is for me) and a packet of cheese and onion crisps ((£9.00). We repair to the beer garden and hope it doesn’t rain as all the covered table are occupied. Our conversation is as predictable as ever, being mostly sad at the state of the world and humanity, but tinged with hope.  It helps that our football team mostly wins nowadays.  The Suffolk Pride seems particularly delicious today but somehow we resist the temptation to buy another pint and at about twenty-five to three we leave our empty glasses at the bar and head off down High Street past the museum towards Portman Road.

Bidding Mick farewell in Sir Alf Ramsey Way at the turnstiles to the Magnus West stand, I pass the serried ranks of supporters’ buses in Constantine Road and eventually make it to turnstiles 50 to 61; I choose number 61 because 1961 was the first half of the season we won the Football League; the cheery turnstile operator seems pleased that I have chosen his turnstile.  That music that is meant to heighten our expectation is already playing as I emerge from beneath the stand into the grey autumn light to find my still empty seat; those around it are already occupied. Ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here with his son Elwood and Fiona is here too, and Pat from Clacton has now recovered from Covid so I welcome her back.  The man from Stowmarket is here as well, but there is a stranger between us.  At the far end of the ground there is a small tifo; it’s a modest affair, just the top sliced off the club crest really, but it’s a start.

Before the game begins a minute’s applause is clapped in memory of former Town manager John Duncan who died a week ago.  A minute’s reflective silence would have been preferable but sadly not everything changes for the better.  As I recall, John Duncan’s term as manager ended rather miserably, with chants of ‘Duncan Out!’ being the catchy chorus to the soundtrack of late 1980’s Portman Road. But to John Duncan’s everlasting credit he did leave a worthwhile legacy having signed some decent players for the Town including David Linighan, Neil Thompson, Ian Redford and the excellent David Lowe.  Many home grown players also became first team regulars in his time. It was also during John Duncan’s time that Town went a whole season without conceding a goal at the North Stand end of the ground.  A quick rendition of mostly the ‘Na-na-na’ bits of The Beatles’ Hey Jude follows the applause and then the game begins.

Town, in blue and white, get first go with the ball and are kicking towards me, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, Phil, Elwood and the man from Stowmarket. Lincoln are in shirts that make them appear to be wearing a different kit depending on which way they are facing. From the front Lincoln’s shirts are of red and white stripes, but from behind they are all red, it’s a design that prevents names and numbers getting lost in the stripes, but I can’t say I like it.  Lincoln’s black shorts are thankfully the same whichever direction they are viewed from.

“Addy, Addy, Addy-O, ITFC” sings the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand as if carrying out warming up exercises for their vocal cords.  I’m not sure if it’s the noise of the big crowd or my hearing, but the blokes behind me are talking very indistinctly and sound like they’ve all just been to the dentist and had anaesthetic; it could just be their accents though.  “Ole, Ole, Ole” continue the Sir Bobby stand perhaps in celebration of Pablo Counago’s presence at the game today.

On the pitch nothing has happened yet; the game is stuck in midfield.   I find my entertainment in the names of the Lincoln team and take a particular liking to Matty Virtue who sounds like he would make a good superhero, whilst Jack Diamond could easily be a character in a novel or a Hollywood matinee idol; finally, I hope that Ben House has a wife or a sister called Wendy.  There is still not much of interest happening on the pitch and as if by way of commentary on the game’s moribund nature the Sir Bobby stand embarks on a rendition of their turgid, funereal version of “When the Town go marching in”.

Despite the satire the football is still uninspiring. The Lincoln fans are singing about making all the noise everywhere they go before the gloomy clouds break slightly to let in a little autumn sunshine.  All of sudden, Conor Chaplin almost sets Wes Burns away with a through pass, and then from a left -wing cross Freddie Ladapo directs the ball without controlled intent roughly in the direction of the Lincoln goalkeeper, the appropriately named Carl Rushworth.  An audible frisson of excitement runs through the home crowd prompting the Lincoln fans to chant “We forgot you were here”.  Football supporters are such liars.

Town are still not doing much.  Sam Morsy launches a cross field ball towards Wes Burns. “A Dom Perignon of a ball” says the bloke behind me, feigning a knowledge of vintage champagne.  In fact it’s not even a Babycham of a ball, as it is headed away by a defender before reaching its intended target.

Over twenty minutes have passed since the game kicked off. Lincoln win the game’s first corner.  “Come On Lincoln, Come On Lincoln” chant the Lincolnites up in the Cobbold Stand, like football supporters are supposed to.  The first foul of the game is committed; it’s a blot on the reputation of matinee idol Jack Diamond and the moguls at RKO won’t be happy. Lincoln win the game’s second corner and then its third, Town haven’t had one yet.  From the third corner the ball is directed to the near post, it goes up in the air and then across goal to the far post where Wendy House’s relative is stood all alone like he hasn’t washed in a month.  From very close-range House heads the ball into the Town goal and Lincoln lead 1-0.  These things happen.

I hadn’t realised as I waited for Town to have a shot on goal, but this game needed a goal.  A Town goal would have been my preference, but the Lincoln goal has seemed to at last provoke Town into playing a bit. Within four minutes of the goal Town win a corner, and then another as a Conor Chaplin shot is deflected away. Lee Evans heads over the cross bar.  As the first half slips into its final ten minutes Conor Chaplin, Sam Morsy and Lee Evans all have shots on goal, Evans’s is deflected slightly and then pushed onto the goal post by Rushworth and away for another corner.  George Edmundson heads wide; from another corner Leif Davis shoots over. “They look a half decent team, well organised” says the bloke behind me of Lincoln City.  They can certainly defend corners.

With the last memorable attacking action of the half Town win a free-kick just outside the penalty area, which Lee Evans places around the defensive wall and into the arms of Rushworth.  Two minutes of added on time are added on and then we all get a break and I chat to Ray and Harrison before eating a Nature Valley oats and honey Crunchy bar. Ray asks me If I’ve checked my phone since the game began in case any new Chancellors of the Exchequer have been appointed.

From the start of the second half Town are into the attacking mode that we turn up at Portman Road expecting to see nowadays.  Oddly however, as if fate is trying really hard this afternoon to make the point that you don’t always get what you deserve, it is Lincoln who come closest to confirming their victory.  From a corner, House lingers alone beyond the far post and heads the ball back, but somehow no Lincoln player gets to it before it is cleared.  Jack Diamond then forces Christian Walton into a smart save on the goal line and finally, Leif Davis appears to blatantly handle the ball in the penalty area but gets away with it; VAR would doubtless have called it proving once again that it’s a good thing not to be in the Evil Premier League.   

For the last half an hour or slightly more the  second half is simply a procession of corners and shots for Town interspersed with lots of passing across the pitch.  Every now and then the ball comes up to the “Churchmans” end of the pitch and Pat from Clacton says “Careful” as Luke Woolfenden and George Edmundson pass it amongst themselves avoiding harrying Lincoln players, but mostly we witness Marcus Harness shooting over the cross bar at the far end.  The Lincoln supporters are largely struck dumb as anxiety becomes their chief emotion. Kieron McKenna makes his usual substitutions which again seem to work well with Kyle Edwards and Kayden Jackson both adding pace on the flanks and Tyreece John-Jules adding a bit of guile and unpredictability.

Despite mounting frustration, the game continues to hold our attention as we concentrate hard to avoid falling off the edge of our seats. The home crowd even support the team in their adversity, which isn’t something they often do, or at least not very well. “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” replaces chants about the significance of Boxing Day and previous more successful teams. The attendance is announced as being 27,608 with 653 of that number being from Lincoln.  Unusually, the crowd doesn’t applaud itself for turning up, perhaps because we’ve got used to such attendances, but may be because the tension is just too great.

The Ipswich attacking play is relentless as pass follows pass, follows corner, follows block, follows shot, follows corner, follows block, follows shot, follows block, follows pass, follows pass, follows pass, I could go on. In the final ten minutes the Lincoln fans chant “Come On Lincoln, Come On Lincoln”, not urging them to score, but just to hold on. Unfortunately for Town they do , and through seven minutes of added on time.  Town lose their first league game at home this season and fail to score in a league game for the first time also.

Today is disappointing but not exceptional, I’ve witnessed the same thing umpteen times before at Portman Road and am pleased to say I’ve seen Ipswich do the same thing to other clubs away from home too. It will happen again too, and at least we didn’t lose to one of the other teams in the top six.  I’m sure if Sir Thomas Wolsey were at the game today he would have said the same thing.